Their Bases Already Lie In Deep Shadows
Which Are Creeping Continually Upward.
We lifted our eyes toward
the masses of light gray rock many hundreds of feet in height,
which kept watch over the lovely glen below.
There were the tops
of the mountains bathed in floods of golden light, while their
lower levels were already dim with twilight gloom. How true, in
life, we said, are the sunshine and shadow. The paths of ease
and self-indulgence are full of mortals because they wind and
diverge from the way of truth, leading to lower and more easily
attained levels. But up on the mountain top no dissatisfied
throng stirs up the dust and we feel that joyous exaltation of
spirit which comes to those who climb a little nearer heaven.
In the park-like space in which we find the Crawford House, how
quiet and beautiful all things are! Towering all around are
lofty peaks as if to shut out the beauty from the rest of the
world. We are not artists, so we sit down in this quiet-retreat
and let Nature paint the picture. The breath of the pine and
birch fills the place like incense. The softly sighing pines
with the distant waterfalls are singing their age-old songs. The
evergreens are marshalled in serried ranks, spire above spire,
like a phalanx of German soldiers clad in their green coats,
their spiked helmets gleaming in the evening light. But they are
pushing on to "victory and peace," and each soldier with aeolian
melodies marches to his own accompaniment while the evening
breeze softly thrums its anthem of divine love.
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